Choice Decisions
by ClassicCeleste
Summary: What if Sansa had left King's Landing with Sandor Clegane after the Burning of the Blackwater? Alternating POV's. Rating may change as story goes.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Pretty much everything that is recognizable belongs to GRRM, the tricky schemer that he is. I don't own it.

**Sansa**

There were not many times that Sansa regretted escaping King's Landing with Sandor Clegane. Sansa knew that she would have felt remorseful if she had not. Any way to be rid of Joffrey was excellent.

However, when Sansa looked up at the man sitting across the fire from her, she felt a tremble of fear deep down in her tummy. Sandor Clegane was a viscous man. He had told her himself that he took most of his pleasure in life by killing other human beings.

The flickering firelight cast thousands of individual shadows in the pits and scars of the Hounds face. Each raised bump of scar tissue commanded its own shadow, and this gave Sandor's face a strange mottled look.

Sansa tightened her cloak around her. Leaving in their haste, Sansa had barely had time to grab garments to wear on the journey. The dress she had come up with was deep blue summer silk, and it hardly kept her warm at all.

Sansa sat as far away from the Hound as she could without leaving the warm of the fire, and tried to make her shivering less noticeable.

It didn't work.

"Chilled, little bird?" he rasped at her, with a voice that sounded like stones scraping together.

Sansa looked up at him, trying not to look at his burnt face. She couldn't bring any words of response to her throat. It was if her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth, making speech impossible.

"If I wanted to do bad by you, girl," he growled. "I would have, back at the Red Keep in your chambers while no one was thinking of you. All anyone had their minds on was the damned battle."

The Burning of the Blackwater had scared Sansa up into her room. However, the Battle hadn't scared her as much as when she found Sandor Clegane in her bed waiting.

"And yet you still can't look at me." The Hound finished with annoyance.

Sansa gathered her courage. She looked briefly at his gaunt face, sharp cheekbones, and long black hair. She made her eyes flit past his burnt cheek and what was left of his ear. Sansa had to force herself to look at the shadows under his eyes, the deep color that came with lack of sleep. Tiny lines crinkled his eyes and brow that were the result of a hard life.

Sansa tried to make herself look into his eyes, to see the cruel expression that she knew was written in them. She couldn't.

Sandor Clegane scoffed.

Sansa Stark looked down at the ground, ashamed of herself. She could make herself look at the severed head of her father, impaled on a spike, but she could not look into the eyes of the man who had saved her from King's Landing.

Sansa was suddenly startled by the sound of movement, followed by a rough hand that grabbed her chin firmly.

Sandor had crossed the fire and knelt by her side. He held her chin in one hand and her slim wrist in the other.

"Look at me." He rasped slowly.

Sansa closed her eyes and struggled, but the Hound would not budge.

"Seven hells," he exasperated, jerking her chin up to face his eyes.

She forced her eyes open. His grey ones looked back at her. They were deep and flat, with a cruel tint that made the knot in her tummy pinch tightly. Beneath that, Sansa sensed a great sadness, that of a man who had known many horrors in his life.

They stayed looking for more moments than seemed necessary, and Sansa was struck by a ridiculous thought. Did he like what he saw in her eyes, she wondered?

They were nearly close enough to touch noses, but neither Sansa nor Sandor moved so much as an inch. Sansa remembered when she had touched his face after she sang in her chambers, and felt his tears on her hand.

The thought made the knot loosen up, and Sansa felt a warm blush creeping up her chest.

Off in the distance, a crow cawed.

Suddenly broken out of their reverie, Sansa and Sandor awkwardly moved away from each other. By the way that he didn't speak, Sansa knew that he had felt a curiosity similar to her own. It made her smile.

Afterwards, tucked into their bedrolls on opposing sides of the fire, he spoke.

"It wasn't so bad, was it little bird?" the soft rasp came across the flames.

Sansa sighed. She had almost been asleep. "No." she replied in a whisper. "It wasn't.


	2. Chapter 2

**A huge, Illyrio Mopatis-sized thank you for all of you who reviewed. This is my first fanfic, and it means the world that you took the time! **

**Disclaimer: Ahh, how I wish I had the skill of the mighty GRRM. Any recognizable items, (including certain choice expressions) belong to GRRM; I have no claim to them whatsoever. **

**Back to my favorite ASOIAF should-be-couple.**

**Seven hells. **

**Sandor**

Sansa Stark was a constant source of amusement to him. But with amusement, there also came frustration and longing.

His little bird, always trying to be the lady. Sansa never forgot her courtesies, even when she was in the middle of nowhere with no one's ears but his to hear her.

Sansa, who insisted on riding side-saddle, when there were no eyes to see or begrudge her.

Sansa, who when confronted with mud would lift her blue silk dress above her ankles, even as their horses trudged through ankle-deep rives of shit and sludge.

If the expression didn't make Sandor's face horrendous, he would have smiled.

And what a face his was. If Sandor had been a normal looking man, he would have laughed and made japes at a man as hideously burned as he was. The little bird could not bring herself to look at his face, he thought. He had to force her.

Sandor looked at her now, perched on her stolen horse as if it was the queen's finest mare. He shook his head.

They had been traveling for days now. The farther they were from King's Landing, the better. At least on this, Sandor and Sansa agreed.

As the trees they rode through thinned, a flash of sunlight illuminated Sansa's auburn hair. She had braided it back for travel, but a few strands had escaped to curl around her jaw temptingly.

Looking at her, Sandor was again confronted with the longing.

Drunk as a dog, he had made his way into her bedchambers, intending to take all that she had from her. He wasn't proud of himself. Pride was a knightly emotion, and Sandor had none.

Yet, when the little bird had been at her most vulnerable, when his knife was pressed to her soft throat, he could not act. He could not force himself to take her.

Days later, looking back, Sandor realized that it had been the song that changed his mind.

When the little bird opened her mouth to sing, he had expected to hear a tune about Florian the Fool and Jonquil his whore. The little bird seemed to love the song. But instead what came out of her mouth was a verse that begged for the Mother's mercy.

Sandor had given people mercy before, by means of a red smile that cut their throats to ribbons. He hadn't encountered the kind of mercy the bird asked for.

And damn her to hell! The tear he shed at the song, the single, drunken tear had been caught on the little bird's hand as she raised it to his face. For once she had not been afraid.

"When are we stopping?" Sansa asked. She had not turned her head to acknowledge him. Sansa would not look at him, and that burned Sandor more than any sword ever would.

He grunted. "Whenever I damned well feel it." The little bird made him gruff and angry, but Sandor couldn't seem to keep his eye off the tantalizing porcelain length of her neck.

"You'll kill the horses!" she exclaimed. "They don't deserve days of hard riding!"

Sandor turned his body to face her. "Mayhap that pack horse of yours will die. Stranger is harder than Tywin Lannister's golden shit." He stroked the black stallion's neck affectionately. Stranger was the one being in Westeros who was not a stranger to Sandor.

"And you're as daft as Joffrey!" Sansa retorted.

Sandor could not help himself. He roared with coarse laughter.

For the next few moments, Sansa was blessed quiet. Then softly she spoke.

"When are we stopping?"

Sandor whirled. "Seven hells, woman!"

Sansa turned up her nose at him. "We need to stop," she said imperiously. "The horses need rest, and I need the comfort of a clean bed and bath."

Sandor nudged Stranger closer to Sansa and her mount, whispering venomously. "And if the Lannister bitch has men waiting there to arrest you? If Stannis or Balon Greyjoy has hired an assassin to slit your pretty throat as you sleep at an inn?"

"They won't get me."

She seemed so sure of herself that he rolled his eyes. "And why do you say that?"

Sansa turned to him for the first time that day, blue eyes stormy with annoyance. "Well what do you think you're for, if not to keep me safe, _ser_?"

"I am no knight." If Sansa took to saying such things to annoy him further, he may be tempted to beat her.

"Yes, though perhaps you should act like one!"

"Quit your peeping."

Their conversation dulled into uneasy silence as both of them sat ahorse, fuming. Sandor realized that the little bird had a temper of her own, which amused him.

Sandor made a deal with himself. If they crossed a road by the end of the day, they would see if it led to an inn. If they didn't, Sansa could fall asleep in her saddle for all he cared.

As dusk fell, his little bird began to shiver. He could tell that she was trying to hide it. Sansa gripped the pommel of her saddle harder, and drew her cloak tight around her ridiculous summer silk gown.

Sandor was still letting his temper simmer. He knew that if he got too enraged at his little bird, he might do something he would regret later.

The first few stars began to show in the gaps between trees, but Sandor was known to press on until neither he nor Stranger could see the ground. Crickets chirped and birds announced the evening.

Just as Sandor began to slow Stranger's hooves for the night, they came across a traveler's road. No more than eight feet wide, it would allow for horses, but not much else.

Sandor groaned, and turned his stallion up the road where he could see the dim glow of lights in the distance.

Sansa laughed a merry, full sound and the longing hit Sandor like a knight in full armor. The bright moonlight bathed her face in mirth; her delicate features drank it up like wine. She would be a gorgeous woman, he knew. And whatever dangers waited for them at this inn, he would protect his little bird.

Sandor shook his head, annoyed with himself. It had been too long since he had had a woman. A traveler's road was a long and lonely one. He hoped there were willing whores and powerful wine at this inn, because seeing beauty in a girl-woman was a good enough cause for him to get absolutely drunk.

Sandor hoped that that would fix his mind and bring it back to reason.


	3. Chapter 3

**Ah, updating. Thanks again for the support! **

**Disclaimer: I am legally obligated to inform you that I am not accredited with any recognizable elements of this piece of literature; therefore, I do not own them. GRRM does! **

**Sansa**

The inn that they had stumbled across stank of sweat, ale, and vomit. Even so, Sansa was grateful to be there.

The dimly lit common room was filled with mercenaries, traders, and peasant families escaping the war. The made a motley group. Sansa saw one man that had was missing an eye; upon further inspection, she realized it was hanging off a leather cord wrapped around his neck.

Sansa could tell which the impoverished families were instantly. They were clothed in dirty, worn garb, and had were so thin Sandor Clegane could have wrapped his hands around their waists.

War was hard on the smallfolk of Westeros.

As the entered the establishment, Sandor Clegane pulled the hood of his cloak over his recognizable face. Sansa figured that tales would be rattling the realm of how the Hound had turned craven and abducted little Sansa Stark. She followed his lead, pulling her hood up over her distinguishable auburn locks.

Not surprisingly after paying for a room, a very surly Sandor headed for the barkeep first. His wine had dried out on the third day of their journey, and Sansa knew that he preferred to spend his evenings drunk.

Awkwardly, Sansa followed him. She didn't drink, save for the occasional glass of wine at dinners.

Sansa sat on the good side of Sandor Clegane. Even though she found his face not near as frightening anymore, she knew that ignoring his burnt side made him irritated. It amused Sansa to no end.

Sansa Stark sat at the bar with her face wrapped tight around her blue silk dress. Even though the common room was sweltering and smelly, she didn't like the look of the men sitting to her right. Every time she turned to peek at them, they leered at her.

One large man in particular seemed fascinated with her.

"And what bed'd you sleeping in tonight, darlin'?" he whispered, smiling drunkenly at her.

Sansa ignored him and tried to catch the eye of the barkeep. Perhaps a glass of wine was exactly what she needed after all. Beside her, Sandor had downed his first tankard of ale and was halfway through another.

Sansa got her wine and sipping it casually, glanced over at the disturbing man.

The swine of a man grabbed his manhood obscenely and licked his scaly lips at her, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

Sansa violently spat out the mouthful of wine she had had in her mouth and careened backwards into Sandor Clegane as the man reached out and groped her breast sickeningly.

"You want to be warmin' my bed tonight, darlin'?" he slurred drunkenly. The man grabbed the places on his chest where his breasts would be if he was a woman and waggled them at her. His companions cheered them on.

Sansa could feel the Hound shoulders tense against her back as the man reached for her again, his meaty palms grasping her neck and hair.

As she struggled Sansa heard Sandor Clegane make a menacing sound in the back of his throat. The next thing Sansa knew, she felt a strong arm wrap around her waist, lifting her out of her seat at the bar.

She turned her head and tucked it into Sandor's chest as she heard the sickening thud of flesh and bone.

The crash of breaking wood and the yells of men assaulted Sansa's ears. When she turned away from Sandor to look, she found that her molester now lay sprawled on the floorboards, the remains of his shattered barstool beneath him.

Sandor Clegane shook out his right fist as his knuckles slowly began to turn pink.

Sansa felt more than heard the deep, menacing rumble of Sandor's voice in his chest. "Find yourself a fuck elsewhere, you bastard son of a fisherman's whore."

The man, delirious from his ale and the assault simply moaned on the floor, companions squatting on the floor around him.

Sansa realized that the man had pissed himself, adding further odor to the inn. She also realized at that moment that she was shaking, that she had her fists buried in the Hound's shirt. She realized that Sandor had wrapped both of his arms around her, and that she was being held tightly, securely to his chest.

And perhaps the most terrifying of all, Sansa realized that she felt thrilled, wondrous even, being held so fiercely by Sandor Clegane.

In those moments where her heartbeats slowed back down and the man on the floor regained consciousness, Sansa would swear that she felt Sandor lower his face to the top of her head. She could feel his huge chest rise as he breathed in the scent of her, and could feel his arms tighten around her one last time.

And then he let go and returned to his ale, leaving Sansa to wander up to their room alone.

Hours later Sansa lay upon the bed, unable to get the feeling of being defended so violently out of her head. Sandor Clegane claimed to have no honor, but she felt that his actions toward her suggested otherwise.

She was remembering his arms and how they felt so strong, so safe, that she was startled when the door of their room clicked open.

Sansa snapped her eyes shut immediately and pretended to be asleep.

She heard him place his key on the small table that the room was provided with, and felt the depression of the mattress as he fell on it.

Sansa could smell the alcohol on him, and knew that with two-hours worth of heavy drinking, he was likely as drunk as he was on the night of their escape.

Sansa nearly gave herself away when she felt his hand softly stroke her auburn locks, unbraided for the night. His touch made her warm and sleepy, like she was dreaming or drunk.

Sandor ran a rough thumb over her bottom lip, sighing. Sansa's lips opened at his touch, even though she hadn't told them to.

She heard him sigh once more, and roll on his side towards her.

Sansa waited several minutes, waiting for his breathing to even out. Soon she was sure he had fallen into a heavy sleep.

A full moon gleamed brightly through the window, illuminating the room so that Sansa could see Sandor's face clearly, as if it was midday.

She tentatively touched his forehead and was startled at how warm and soft his skin was. Sandor Clegane sighed and muttered quietly.

"Defend…" she heard him whisper deeply. "Must….my…little bird."

Sansa's heart swelled in her chest. Emboldened by Sandor's admission, Sansa ran her fingers through his black hair. It fell silkily through her fingers. It was longer than was fashionable, nearly reaching his shoulders now. Somehow, Sansa doubted he cared one bit about fashion.

Strong, dark eyebrows stood out in the gleaming moonlight. She skimmed her fingers over his eyelids, eyes flitting swiftly beneath them as he dreamed. She was astonished upon studying his eyelashes. They were thick and long, something she had never noticed before.

Sansa placed her hands gently on both sides of his face and felt a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones.

The burned area of his face was shocking, but it failed to frighten her as it had before. Here, bathed in the moonlight, Sansa felt as if the truth was revealed to her. She felt as if she was living in her own song.

There was a terrible beauty in the way his flesh pulled across his face. It made Sansa's heart throb with pity. Sandor did not deserve the way his darker, burnt flesh crisscrossed over his gaunt face. He did not deserve to be looked at with fear when one could see how every muscled had been burned and warped.

Sansa could not imagine the pain the fire had caused Sandor Clegane.

Sansa could not keep her eyes off of Sandor's lips once she noticed them. If not for the small burnt portion, they would have been perfectly shaped.

She stroked his lips with her index finger and was rewarded when they opened under her slight touch. Though lightly chapped, his lips were plump and full, gorgeous and practically begging to be kissed.

Sansa leaned closer to Sandor and placed her mouth over his gently. Though he was in a deep sleep, lips not reacting to hers, Sansa felt something warm and promising grow deep in her stomach at their touch.

She could taste the hints of ale and flavor of sweet wine on his lips as she ran her tongue tentatively over his bottom lip. The warm feeling grew, and Sansa gasped, pressing her body against him harder, craving and yearning to be held again by his arms that were as strong as steel.

But Sandor Clegane was dead to the world, and Sansa Stark collapsed, disappointed, away from him, trying to dismiss the piercing pang she felt in her chest.

Suddenly distraught and lonely, Sansa snuggled closer to him and his warmth, feeling suddenly chilled in her thin silk dress. She grasped one of his wrists and pulled the sleeping deadweight over her, around her slender waist.

A few moments later, Sandor pulled her tighter to him, unconsciously holding her wonderfully tight, and crushing her breasts, belly, and thighs up against him.

She didn't mind. She wrapped her arms around his neck and entwined her fingers in his hair.

"Mmh….my little bird." He sighed, making Sansa grow warm and tingly again.

Sansa smiled, tucked her head underneath his chin, and for the first night of their journey, slept soundly, surrounded in Sandor's warmth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hah, I hate waiting for updates on stories that I like to read, so I figure that I shouldn't keep those of you that read my story waiting either. Thanks for the support, and your reviews make me smile like a kid on Christmas morning :D**

**Disclaimer: It's getting tedious typing that I don't own any of GRRM's work. But I don't! **

**Sandor**

_In Sandor Clegane's dream, they were naked. The dreaming Sandor had no time to notice his own bareness, as he was captivated by the young woman in front of him. _

_Sansa stood in front of him, milky arms at her sides. Her gentle face was upturned to his gruesome one expectantly, a soft smile on her lips. _

_She was gorgeous. Sandor had seen many naked women in his life; from whores, to peasants in little more than rags, to exotic fire dancers that sometimes entertained at court. _

_None of them prepared him for Sansa Stark. _

_Her neck was long and thin, arcing temptingly. Her breasts were small but perfectly shaped. He had not forgotten the feeling of having her slender waist wrapped in his arms, and he wondered what it would feel like without their annoying clothes in the way. _

_Her legs stretched down to the floor, proportioned exactly with the rest of her body. Sandor couldn't see a flaw in them. And between them …_

_He could not restrain himself. He ran to her, scooping her up in his arms and putting his mouth on hers possessively. Sansa returned his kiss, a soft sound escaping her throat that made Sandor grab her harder. _

_Their tongues tangled in each others' mouths, and warm hands explored bodies feverishly. Sandor had never felt like this. _

_And suddenly, his little bird broke their kiss, lurching away from him with an expression of horror on her glistening mouth and in her eyes. _

_A black arrowhead was sticking through her belly grotesquely, and then his bird was falling away from him. The walls of the room turned to blood and cascaded down around them. Sandor dove down through the lake of blood, trying to grab his little bird's corpse as it sank._

_The bitter, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and Sandor found that he was drowning. _

_Even so, he swam down forever, limbs burning, chest contracting, and could not reach Sansa. He began to lose consciousness, feeling the blackness of nothing slip over his eyes. He saw Gregor's face behind his eyelids. What a horrible last sight he thought as he died. _

_Then Sandor was hot, so excruciatingly hot. _

_He was burning. Sandor Clegane was tied to a stake with his arms behind him, melting as a darker Sansa threw wood onto his pyre. Sandor Clegane screamed into the rope that gagged him, as he lost feeling in his feet and smelled the acrid burning of flesh. _

_And Sansa Stark laughed. _

Sandor awoke from his nightmare, arms squeezing tight and legs thrashing. He was coated in sweat, teeth gritted.

Sandor Clegane realized that the flesh version of Sansa rested between his arms, not the devilish incarnation of his nightmare.

"Seven bloody hells!" he rasped loudly, still quaking in horror.

Sandor noticed that he must have been gripping her painfully tight. Sure enough when he loosened his grip some, red welts showed on her pale arms.

He groaned. They would become bruises, stay for days, and remind him of his nightmare.

Sansa didn't seem to notice. She had a hand wrapped in his hair, he realized. Sandor was even more shocked when she moved it down to gently cup the scarred side of his face.

He jerked back from her touch even though it had felt so good. "What in the hells are you doing?" he demanded.

Sansa's blue eyes met his boldly, and he thought about how he must look to her. Eyes as wide as dinner plates, beads of sweat, and I'm frightened like a maiden, he thought.

"Are you alright?" she asked timidly. Her hand had moved down and was resting on his chest, in between his arms that were still holding her.

"'M goddamn fine." He said gruffly. Sandor fought to master the longing he felt, and failed as he had many times on their journey.

Sansa ignored his tone and stretched her back luxuriously, yawning. The action pressed her stomach hard against his and gave him a splendid view of the tops of her breasts.

Sandor remembered the beginning of his dream, how she had been naked, and was sickened with himself. Not sickened that she had been naked, sickened that he wanted her that way now.

It must have showed in his eyes, because Sansa rolled onto her back away from him.

"You don't look fine." She said simply, breathing deep. "You look like shit."

Sandor felt his mouth drop open in shock. He had never heard her utter so much as a harsh word before.

Sansa lay to his right on her back, still adjusting to the morning. He rolled over and placed his elbows on either side of her head, resting his body weight on top of her.

He put his face so close to hers that their noses nearly touched. "What has gotten into you little bird? Have you lost your courteous voice?" he growled at her.

"Not lost."

"Then what? You touched my face." Sandor lowered his voice menacingly, and was rewarded when she shrunk back a tiny bit. "You even said _shit! _Are you not afraid of me?"

Sansa raised her arms and took his face in both of her hands. "It's not so bad." She said stubbornly, "Your face."

"Say it again."

Sansa looked puzzled. "It's not so bad?"

Sandor felt himself smile against her palm. 'What is getting into me?' he thought. 'I should be pushing her away, not rolling over her.'

"No, shit. Say it again." Sandor made his voice extra gruff, trying frantically to ignore Sansa's lips, inches away from his own.

She made it even more difficult, leaning forward so that he could feel her breath on his face.

"_Shit." _Sansa whispered pointedly at him.

Sandor fought an inner battle of his own. Dream still fresh in his mind, he could practically taste her kiss on his lips. He restrained himself, because he knew that once he tempted himself with Sansa, he would not be able to stop himself. He would take all of her. And as much as he wanted her, Sandor did not want to become like the ass that he had punched out at the bar. She was dangerous for him.

Sansa looked immensely proud of herself. He rolled off her and occupied his mouth by shaking their bed with rumbling laughter, instead of pressing it to hers like he wanted to.

His little bird sat up, and donned her cloak over the blue silk dress that was now rumpled from sleep.

'Control yourself,' he thought as he got up. Sandor raised his arms above his head, and his hands nearly touched the ceiling. The Hound stretched, popping every joint in his back.

He heard Sansa's muffled giggle behind him and turned.

Sandor realized he wore no shirt, only the cotton shorts that served as his smallclothes. He searched around for his clothing, sword, and leather armor, wondering if Sansa liked what she saw. She had certainly not objected to the position they had found themselves in this morning. He could not find them until he realized that Sansa stood at his side, clothes in hand.

"They were under the bed." Sansa said simply, trying not to giggle again.

"What the fuck were they doing there?" he asked angrily.

Sansa looked at him innocently. "You must have put them there last night. You were drunk as I've seen you."

Sandor was struck with the possibilities that he could not remember. "Stranger damn me," he intoned flatly. "Did I…."

"Sleep like a log?" Sansa interrupted. "Yes. You snored too. It was awful."

Sandor whacked her with his shirt before pulling it over his head. "I'm not sure what to do with this bold little bird," he said, strapping on his sword belt. "What's changed your mind about me?"

Sansa faced him stoically. "Nothing you're likely to remember."

She sashayed out the door of their room, and Sandor noticed that the backside of her was nearly as striking as the front.

Sandor Clegane put his head against the wall of the room and slammed his forehead against it hard. He hoped that reason would come back to him as the slight bump on his forehead rose.

Sandor was going to have to work with his feelings for Sansa Stark, before he did something that he would regret.

But oh, how he enjoyed pricking her, needling at her. Sandor wondered how much it would take to make her feel awkward.

It would be nearly as rewarding as watching her wriggle under his gaze like she used to. He was struck suddenly with the thought that there were many other ways to make her squirm.

He caught himself smiling in the small bronze mirror of their room.

"Damn me to hell!" Sandor roared, frustrated with himself.

**A/N Mmh. This chapter was harder to write. I'm not sure if I stayed in character as well as I have before. Thoughts please? **


	5. Chapter 5

**You know that you're special when you use your amazing skills as an insomniac to pen creative fan fiction. Fan fiction that you don't own by the way, so there's my DISCLAIMER for you **

**Sansa**

It had been yesterday that Sansa and Sandor had left the inn. One day of traveling, a tense night, and a morning later, and Sansa was burning.

She craved Sandor's touch. As they rode away from the inn, Sansa had yearned for the newfound pleasantness of their conversation. She had learned that the witty banter they exchanged made her want him all the more; she loved teasing him, pricking his temper.

But Sandor was silent, brooding, for the most part.

As they stopped for the night on the south shore of the God's Eye in the remains of an abandoned, burnt-out stone cottage, Sansa had wanted Sandor's warmth beside her as she slept. She had wanted to feel his body next to hers, taking comfort in the feel of him.

Most of all, Sansa craved his lips with an irresponsible, desperate longing.

Sandor normally woke before her in the mornings of their travel, but as light began to filter in through the unshuttered windows of the cottage, she woke restlessly.

He lay prone, at least two feet from her, face buried in his pillow where he had collapsed after taking the first watch.

As Sansa watched his broad shoulders rise and fall, the small distance between them seemed to gape, growing into nothingness.

She crossed it with a shuffle of blankets, and laid a soft peck on the back of his head, among the long waves of his black hair.

Sansa stood then, and taking a dagger from Sandor's belt, headed outside. She thought that she had seen a patch of greens growing not far from their cottage as they approached the place. Sansa figured she could use them in a salad.

She smiled at the thought of Sandor eating a leafy, good-for-him salad.

The day was warm, going to be one of the hottest they had seen. Winter may be coming, Sansa thought, but it has yet to reach the south.

Thick, rolling grey clouds floated low overhead. Sansa had no doubt that they contained rain, and she begged it to hold off long enough for the pair to find another shelter.

Sansa found the patch of greens without any problem, and began to cut them away. She left the roots in hopes that they might grow back one day, to become food for more travelers.

As she had knelt to cut the greens, her ridiculous blue silk dress had pooled around her. The dress was wrap style, and the silk fabric was losing its tension after nearly a week of hard riding. It hung loosely around her shoulders, thin fabric draping over her slim body in waves.

I need a new dress, Sansa thought.

She went back to her greens, and started to gather them into a pile for transport back to the cottage. She was startled when the clouds over her head boomed with thunder and began to rain.

While she had been cutting greens, the clouds had blackened into a threatening layer, rain collecting in them. What started as rain swiftly turned into a down pour. Sansa was soaked by the time she had taken ten steps, greens wrapped in one of the layers of her dress.

"SANSA!" She heard Sandor bellow over the thunder.

She tried to reply, but her yell of "Sandor!" was lost in a sudden loud flash of crackling lightning.

She began running towards the cabin. "I'm here!" she shouted, dragging her sopping silks along.

He was closer this time. "Sansa?" he yelled again.

She could see him now, as the blistering lightning crackled again. Sansa ran into the clearing that lay forty feet from their cabin.

Sandor had his back turned to her, eyes frantically searching the wood.

"I'm here." She said at her normal volume. Sansa marveled at the thought of what she must look like to him. A small woman, soaking dress clinging to her frame, the hem of which was coated in fresh mud. Her hair must be a wet, bedraggled mess too, she thought. Rain-darkened auburn locks hung to her waist, unstyled and unfashioned.

Sandor turned and ran at her, and, much to Sansa's joy, wrapped her firmly in his arms.

All she had seen as he came rushing at her was the determined look in his grey eyes, as his long dark hair fell into them.

Sandor squeezed Sansa wonderfully tight, and she dropped her greens at his feet to stand on her tiptoes and bury her face in his neck.

"I'm here." She softly repeated against his warm skin. "I'm here."

Sandor pressed his face against her hair and breathed deeply. "Sansa," he whispered raspily. "You're freezing."

In all truth, Sansa hadn't realized she was shivering until that moment. As he drew back to look at her, she protested, wanting to continue being held.

"I'm fine!"

He frowned at her, caressing her face with his hand. "Little bird," he murmured. "You're cold. You need out of the rain.

Again Sansa was mystified by the look in his eyes. The grey pools, normally so cold, glanced at her with a feeling Sansa could name too easily. She had experienced plenty of it herself.

Longing.

She leaned up on her toes once more, putting her lips as close to his as she could manage.

"So take me out of it," she whispered.

Sandor groaned throatily, and placed his hands on her waist, lifting her up. Sansa found herself wrapping her legs around his stomach, and crossing her ankles behind the small of his back.

She felt something hot, daring, and not entirely unwelcome stir deep in her belly as she wrapped her hands in his wet hair. His own hands held her against him.

For a fleeting moment, they looked into each others' eyes, blue meeting grey. Then their lips met.

Fire swept through Sansa. She forgot her shivers, didn't feel the wetness of her clothes. With Sandor's lips attached to hers, one of his arms on the small of her back, the other grasping a buttock firmly, Sansa Stark didn't care.

It was if a deadly inferno coursed through her, originating at the place where their lips met.

Sandor's mouth moved in harmony with hers, their lips frantically grabbing, seeking, and pulling at each other. Soft wet sucking sounds were all Sansa could hear. The beating of their hearts in their chests resounded off of each others.

Sansa brushed her tongue along Sandor's lip as she had that night in the inn, and again his mouth opened easily. Sansa placed her tongue in his mouth and began exploring, evoking a groan from Sandor that he felt in her own mouth.

Sansa broke away for air, gasping heavily. Sandor had walked them back to the cottage.

She didn't explore her surroundings for long, for she ripped Sandor's head away from where he had been kissing her neck and brought his mouth back to hers, sucking greedily.

He slammed her back against the wall, pinning her there as she still straddled him. Sandor grabbed Sansa's bottom lip in his teeth and pulled, eliciting a desperate moan from her throat.

Sandor's hands explored her breasts, rolling her nipples in between his thumb and forefinger as she whimpered.

Sansa hurriedly ripped open the buttons on his shirt, exposing his chest. She ran her hands over his broad shoulders, hard stomach, and muscled chest, feeling every muscle beneath her fingers.

Sansa didn't realize that he had bared her to the waist by removing the sodden dress until he took one of her nipples in his mouth. His hand massaged and kneaded her other breast as its fellow was kissed and sucked. Sansa could no longer control the sounds that came out of her mouth.

The next thing she knew, Sansa could feel the cold floor against her back, a startling contrast to the molten man above her.

When he broke for air, she flipped a non-resistant Sandor over to his back and straddled him. Sansa kissed the raised apple of his throat, and he cried out in passion. His hands gripped her back possessively, pulling her towards him.

Sansa couldn't think of a place she would rather be when their lips finally found each other again.

Truthfully she couldn't even remember her own name.

They lay on the floor, kissing with every once of their passion, simply enjoying the feeling of accomplishment they shared at finally being able to touch each other.

It all came crashing to an end.

"Well, well," said a low male voice that didn't belong to the man pressing his lips to her chest.

Sansa turned in horror, forgetting that she was topless as she stared at the men in the doorway.

"What have we here?"

Sansa turned to the man beneath her, eyes wide. Sandor gave her a frantic look and tried to shield her from the five hostile men in the doorway of their cottage.

She buried her head in Sandor's chest.

**A/N And just when Sansa was starting to think that rain was a good thing!s **


	6. Chapter 6

_**Thus can my love excuse the slow offence **__**  
><strong>__**Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed: **__**  
><strong>__**From where thou art why should I haste me thence? **__**  
><strong>__**Till I return, of posting is no need. **__**  
><strong>__**O! what excuse will my poor beast then find, **__**  
><strong>__**When swift extremity can seem but slow?**_

_**In other words, I am sorry for the wait. I have no excuse! I hope that as soon as this goes up about a dozen Story Alerts pop up in everyone's inboxes…. Because I'm back :D**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of GRRM's works, nor do I own the lovely Sonnet 51 by the masterful William Shakespeare. **_

_**Sandor**_

_Sandor's chains rattled with all the contempt of the ghost of Harrenhal, taunting him with the clinking of movement. _

_They had taken his damned sword, his bloody purse, and his darling girl. _

_Of all the three, Sandor knew exactly which he missed the most at that moment. He wasn't sure if missing his sword more than Sansa was wrong, but he convinced himself that he would use the sword to free the girl. His purse could rot for all he cared. _

_They hadn't bound Sandor and Sansa's feet. Moving over such treacherous terrain was tricky, and chains helped no one move their feet with grace. _

_Their wrists were bound to their horses, which were in turn ridden by one of their captors. With five men and three horses, it had been a long month for their captors, made much easier by the fact that they now had five horses and two wanted fugitives on their hands. _

_Sandor could have defeated them in combat, five against one, he had no doubt. The men were scrawny, limp, and malnourished. The most muscled one among them was a boy of about sixteen, though he walked with a limp and was missing an eye. _

_Oh yes, Sandor could have defeated them, __would__ have defeated them if it had not been for Sansa and the position they had found themselves in. _

_And Sandor did wonder how they had found themselves there. One moment he had been searching in the woods for his bird, and the next, her teat was in his mouth, his cock as hard as a rock. _

_It didn't go any further though, to Sandor's A__nd Sansa's? __frustration. _

_The men had walked up on them, observed the scene, and wrenched Sansa and Sandor apart. _

_Sansa's half-nakedness ha not gone unnoticed, two of them groped her while Sandor was held down by three men. Had he had time to reach his sword, there was no doubt in his mind that he would have lopped things off the ones molesting her. He would start with the hands, and end with their shriveled cocks. _

_In that moment though, Sandor's brain somehow gained control over his rage. _

_"That's Lady Margaery of House Tyrell you abuse, __gentlemen.__" Sandor had rasped at them. _

_Soon his judge of their characters came true. They swore no oaths to any of the damned Kings, and cared only for gold. Quick enough, they left Sansa's body to herself, and got in his face. _

_"An' 'oo might you be?" The largest one asked. He was hairy everywhere, save the top of his head which was stark bald. _

_Sandor enjoyed a moment, picturing a scene in his head where he claimed to be the Knight of the Flowers. He doubted these buffoons knew the difference, but whomever they ransomed with would. _

_"__Ser __Hugh of the Vale, gentlemen," Sandor pulled out of his ass. "The Lady Lysa Arryn bade me bring Lady Margaery to treat with her in the Eeyrie."_

_The idiot men roared with laughter. "An' what's she gon' do when we tell her that Ser Hugh's fuckin' Lady Margaery at the God's Eye?" _

_Likely nothing, __Sandor thought. __As Lady Margaery is surrounded by Lannister men in King's Landing by this time, and Ser Hugh has been dead at the hand of my brother for near two years now. _

_But Sandor adopted his most horrified expression, which in hindsight was not difficult. _

_"Your graceful gentlemen, I beg you. Do not tell!" Sansa pleaded before he could speak. She had pulled her dress back over herself and was standing. "My family has much gold!"_

_"Aye!" said the fat leader. "But I reckon Vargo Hoat has enough, and he's not thousands o' leagues away!"_

_That was when Sandor had punched the man standing at his left shoulder, a redheaded man with a purple beard. _

_That was also when they had put the fetters around Sandor and Sansa's wrists. _

_Drawn out of his musings, Sandor looked over at Sansa with a pang of remorse. Remorse that she'd had to be chained too. Remorse that they had groped her savagely, though he could not blame them. And most of all, remorse that they had not been able to finish what they had started in the cottage. _

_The Mummer's men could cry fuck all they wanted, but it hadn't happened. _

_Sansa cleared her throat and looked at him with her luminous blue eyes. He still remembered the frosted over glaze they had taken on while he kissed her. _

_He reached a shackled hand out as far as it could go, and she did the same. Depending on how close the Mummer's road, Sandor and Sansa could touch fingertips. They did so now, feeling each other's warmth in the dropping dusk temperatures. _

_Sandor felt like a heartsick sap for asking, but he did anyways._

_"M'lords, is it really necessary for m'lady to be chained? _

_The redheaded man Sandor had swung at tried to return the favor before answering. Sandor head butted the man as he tried to throw a punch, using his leg to trip the man up as he stumbled. _

_The redhead spat out a mouthful of dirt into Sandor's chest, for he was not tall enough to reach the Hound's face. Sandor heard Sansa's soft giggle. _

_"Surely you can see that I am the dangerous one?" Sandor asked the bald man. "Let the lady go, she does not deserve this treatment." _

_"Aye! You're the dangerous one!" the bald leader replied. "But she's the expensive one!_

_And the Mummers laughed their robust laughs and hurried on the way. _

_Sansa called over to him. _

_"M'lord?" It was not safe to use their real names among those who could overhear and give way their farce. _

_Sandor felt his chest tighten at her timid voice. Where had Sansa's timid ness been when she had wrapped her legs around his torso, straddling him? _

_"Yes, m'lady?" he replied, trying to act every bit the knight he claimed to be. Though, if he pretended to be a knight, shouldn't he be fucking whores and destroying families? _

_"I thank you for trying, good man. Truly I do. Yet I fear there is nothing we can do until we reach Harrenhal."_

_Sandor smiled. Sansa had called him good man, instead of good ser, and that made him feel a bit better. He hoped that Sansa too knew that knights were an unchivalrous, immoral lot, who cared for nothing but their glory. _

_"I do believe you're right, sweet lady. These are awful circumstances we have come upon."_

_"Agreed m'lord. Till Harrenhal then?" And when Sandor nodded, she voiced another question. _

_"Is there anything m'lord would like from me to pass the time of our sorrows?" _

_Aye, thought Sandor. Your sweet womanly form, your delicious edible lips. Your soft breasts to pillow my head on, and your maidenhood to please us all._

_But all he said was something different entirely. _

_"A song." _

_Sansa smiled at him then, not Margaery Tyrell. And opening her mouth sweetly, his little bird began to trill. _

_"__The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,  
>and her kisses were warmer than spring.<br>But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,  
>and its kiss a terrible thing.<em>"

Sandor Clegane had to prevent himself from laughing aloud, and it came out as sort of a strangled gasp. That Sansa knew such a bawdy song shocked him, but more importantly it entranced him. __

"_The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,  
>in a voice that was sweet as a peach,<br>But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,  
>and a bite sharp and cold as a leech.<em>"

Sansa's clear singing had captivated their captors as well, and a blonde man with hair to his stomach joined in, deep voice complimenting Sansa's. __

"_As he lay on the ground with the darkness around, _

_and the taste of his blood on his tongue,  
>His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,<br>and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,_"

All of the Mummer's and even Sandor sang the last verse louder than they would have in a tavern.

_"Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,  
>the Dornishman's taken my life,<br>But what does it matter, for all men must die,  
>and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!"<em> 

_The group broke apart and laughed. Sandor looked at Sansa' with amazement in his eyes, and felt something stronger than lust lure him to her for the first time. _

_"San-" he started to say, but was interrupted by the rattling of his fetters as they fell to the ground. _

_"Chains come off." The bald man said. "As long as there's no funny business and as long as she sings!"_

_The man walked back to his horse, fat ass waddling in its breeches. _

_The next thing he knew, Sansa was in his arms, planting an eager kiss on his mouth. Sandor grabbed her and hoisted her up, kissing her back passionately. _

_They broke apart and Sansa smiled up at him. _

_He had to ask. "Where did you learn such a tune, little bird? I've never heard it from a lady."_

_She kissed him again. "You like to sing it when you're __very__ drunk." Sansa said pertly. _

_Sandor laughed in her glorious face and tilted his head down again._

_"I HEAR NO SINGING?" the fat man bellowed, and the pair sprang apart as if scalded. _

_Then Sansa wrapped Sandor's hand around her waist and dashed after the horses, singing again. _

_"__The brother's of the Kingswood,_

_They were an outlaw band._

_The forest was their castle,_

_But they roamed across the land…"_

_And as Sansa's sweet voice carried them on, Sandor felt as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff, about to jump off and royally fuck himself over. He saw Sansa at the bottom of the cliff in his minds eye, beckoning to him. She tempted him so, and Sandor leapt off the surreal cliff, falling, falling, falling, into Sansa's waiting arms. _


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER. Everyone knows I don't own this. George R. R. Martin does. **

**Sansa**

One fetter-free day later, the great castle of Harrenhal came into view. A large black smudge on the horizon, even from a distance the mountainous place seemed cursed. Sansa hesitated at the thought of all of the burnt ghosts and tortured souls that must still keep the place haunted.

She shivered.

They rode towards the great castle, but soon had to stop for food. The fifth member of those who called themselves Mummers was and old man, frail and decrepit. Sansa found herself wondering how one such as he came to be of use to a ferocious man like Vargo Hoat.

Sansa had heard tales more terrible of Vargo Hoat than she had of Harrenhal. Tales that made her shiver and move closer to Sandor Clegane in the night. Sansa felt that Sandor would protect her, even if he didn't have his sword.

The men had taken Sandor's broadsword when they had come upon Sansa and Sandor rolling on the ground, expressing their newfound mutual passion. Sansa was still a bit frightened when she thought of how many the Hound had killed, but the fear soon left as he put his arms around her.

He watched the sword constantly, Sansa could tell. She would have placed a golden dragon that Sandor knew exactly where his sword was, and could find it without stumbling, even if blindfolded.

Sansa wasn't sure if he watched her as much as his missing affect, but she thought that he would be able to find her too, if she was lost. He seemed to have a sense for where the things dearest to him lay.

A morning grey and dreary dawned on their party, and Sansa could not see in front of her nose. They had staked the horses to ground that was as hard as rock. It had taken the lead man five minutes to pound in all the stakes.

She saw Sandor Clegane watching the man labor over such a task. Sansa was sure that he could do the deed in mere seconds. She knew that it killed him to be held so loosely captive; Sansa could tell that he wanted to be free, and wondered when he would attempt something.

The place where they had camped was on the shore of the God's Eye. The land was flat to Sansa's fore, aft, and left, but to her right, a small forest lay covered in fog.

Ahead of them lie Harrenhal. Behind them was the way they had come, and Sansa could not bear being one step closer to King's Landing than was necessary. To the left, the gentle slope of the shore of the God's Eye rose to meet them.

The forest looked ever-so promising.

They were breaking their fast on sausage and wine when Stranger gave a whicker. Then Sandor was on his feet and soothing his trusted horse before the men could get up to stop him.

Sansa drew her breath in anticipation and fear. The saddlebags that Stranger carried had long been an object of fixation for her Hound. Even Sansa had noticed the sword hilt sticking out of the top of them.

Sure enough, her Hound grabbed his long broadsword and whirled. Sansa whirled around, and took cover behind the horse she had stolen in King's Landing.

As Sansa pressed her face into the mare's whickering flank, she heard a sickeningly wet thud.

After the first sound, all the fire in the Seven Hells broke loose. Horses and men were screaming, the sounds blending and becoming eerily alike. Sansa heard another thud and the twanging release of a bow.

The thing that drew Sansa from behind her now bucking horse was Sandor's growl of pain.

The scene before Sansa made her sick to her stomach. When the singer's wrote songs of death and war, they forgot to mention the coppery smell of blood that permeated the air, or the heartbreaking moans of dying men.

Two of the men who called themselves Mummer's were already on the ground, bleeding. Their leader lay not five feet from Sansa's toes, opened from brow to breast. The red headed man lay closer to Sandor, intestines spilling out of a gash in his belly. Sansa watched him frantically trying to hold them inside his hands as the man slowly bled out and died.

Sansa turned and violently threw up the sausage she had eaten moments ago.

The shaft of an arrow imbedded itself in Sandor's shoulder. From where she stood, ten yards from him, Sansa could see the blood seeping sinisterly into the fabric of his shirt.

Sandor closed in on the elderly man that was hurriedly trying to reload the bow with an arrow, his broadsword, though stained with red, gleaming wickedly.

As Sansa watched, Sandor brought his sword up and around in a deadly arc. The old man with the bow had had his head down, but at the last moment looked up to see his death. The steel struck hard and true, cleaving the old man's skull in two between his eyes.

As another man snuck up behind her Hound, Sansa cried out.

"Sandor!" she yelled in alarm, frozen as the man advanced on her Hound.

Sandor Clegane turned, and saw the nearest threat. The man came at Sandor with only the frying pan of sausages in his hand. Sandor turned, taking a hit from the pan on his back as he crouched low and brought his sword sweeping up from the ground, severing the man's limb at the armpit.

"The Stranger!" Sandor roared, as he pivoted and struck the head from the man in one foul stroke.

Sansa threw up again, emptying her stomach of acidic bile.

And as the tears cleared from her eyes and she straightened, Sansa felt the bite of a dagger at her throat and the hand of a man grip her shoulder.

Sansa saw Sandor's face in front of her, widening in horror as Sansa felt blood trickle down her neck.

The fifth Mummer held Sansa captive.

"Drop the sword," he said gruffly in her ear. When Sandor didn't obey, he repeated his demand. "Drop the fucking sword, do ya' hear me?"

He squeezed Sansa tighter and she felt a fresh stream of blood fall down her neck.

Sandor Clegane stared at the man who held Sansa hostage, chest heaving. Blood from the arrow had soaked the fabric of his shirt, but Sandor didn't seem to care.

"The sword!" the Mummer yelled. "Drop it, or I drop your little singer here!"

The dagger once again pressed against Sansa's throat even harder and she cried out in pain.

Sandor raised both his hands slowly, and took two painstaking steps forward. Sansa wanted to tell him to keep his sword, to save her, to kill the man hurting her. But Sansa Stark couldn't speak. She was petrified, and completely in the jeopardy of the man holding her.

Sandor Clegane lowered himself to the ground; and wincing in pain, placed the red broadsword on the ground next to him.

"Now that's better." The man holding Sansa mocked. "We wouldn' want this little angel to get hurt, woul' we?"

Sandor Clegane rose and spat at the man's feet. "Hurt?" he asked slowly. "Hurt like the rest of your _companions_?"

"They deserved what they got an' more," the man said. "I'm well rid o' them, and I din't even have to do it meself!" The man with the dagger laughed, and each wiggle dug the knife in deeper to her throat.

And suddenly Sansa was furious.

Her anger burned away all timidness as the instinct to survive struck in. Sansa realized then that she had held all of her fury at Joffrey, at the queen, at the world in until that moment. Her blood boiled, and rage overcame her.

Sansa exhaled hard, and slammed her heel into the man's cod with all of her strength. She elbowed him in the stomach, grunting in fury.

The man doubled over, still clutching his knife. Sansa whirled away from her captor and kicked him in the shins, knocking him to the hard, bloodstained earth.

Faintly she heard Sandor calling her name in alarm, but all Sansa could focus on was the man's knife. All of her fury that she had carried from King's Landing flew into her limbs and she flew at the man.

She landed on top of him, and before Sansa knew what was happening her hands were gripping the dagger and plunging it into the man's windpipe.

His blood soaked her hands and Sansa realized what she had done.

All of her fury left her in that instant, replaced by utmost horror. She looked at the red stains on her hands in disbelief.

She leapt of the man and doubled over, clutching her chest. Hoarse, racking sobs ripped out of her lungs, painful in their exit. Sansa could not control her breathing and shuddered violently.

Unable to clam herself, Sansa rolled onto her side and wrapped herself in a ball, not caring about the rest of the world. Sobs still tore out of her throat and Sansa hated herself.

She was vaguely aware of Sandor Clegane's hands on her waist, his voice begging her to look at him. Sansa could not focus on anything, and felt the world slipping away from her.

As she fainted, Sansa Stark's last thought was of the smell of blood.

The crackling warmth of a fire heated Sansa's face. Underneath closed lids, the flesh of her eyes was extremely hot.

Sansa breathed in once, and was relieved to find that she could no longer smell the stench of death that she had come to know all too well.

She opened her eyes, and saw that she was surrounded by darkness and wrapped in Sandor Clegane's cloak.

Her neck felt odd and thick. Sansa raised a hand to it and felt a makeshift bandage tied over the small wound on her throat.

Her head was elevated above her body, and Sansa found that her head rested in the lap of Sandor Clegane.

"Wh-where are we?" she stammered out, sitting up.

Sandor grunted beside her. "A day's ride east of the God's Eye."

Sansa nodded and looked at him. Sandor met her eyes wearily. Other than when her head had been on his lap, he held himself unusually distant of her. His head was lowered cautiously, and the arc of his torso bent away from her.

Quite shockingly, Sansa realized that Sandor thought she was afraid of him.

"Sandor," she said softly, reaching for him.

He took her reaching hands and dwarfed them with his huge ones. "Sansa, are you hurt?"

"No more than you've already seen to," she replied, nodding to her neck.

He nodded, and withdrew his hands.

Sansa wrapped his cloak more tightly around her and gazed into the fire for a long moment. On their trips so far, she had lit the fires, knowing how much he hated and feared them. Fire was the very reason that he had taken her from King's Landing, the thing that had driven him away from the Lannister's he had loyally served.

He had held her at knifepoint and made her sing. He had scared her so badly that she had wanted to run away herself.

Sansa was unsure if she should smile or cry at the memory.

But she had gone with him, and things were fine thus far. With the exception of that morning. Sansa shuddered, remembering.

Her brave Hound. He had fought and killed four of the five men that had taken them prisoner, escaping unscathed.

And then Sansa started, thinking of an injury that he had obtained.

Sandor Clegane looked at the fire, clearly thinking dark thoughts. When she turned to face him however, he met her eyes curiously.

"The arrow!" she gasped. "You're hurt."

"It's nothing, little bird." Sandor shifted his eyes back to the fire, but Sansa would not have it.

She moved towards him and determinedly worked at removing his shirt. Sure enough, it was stained with dried blood, and when Sansa's fingers ran over the lump of the broken arrow shaft, he hissed in pain.

She raised a scathing eyebrow at him. "Oh yes, it feels like absolutely _nothing_." She intoned.

"Sansa." He said plainly.

She met his eyes. "Sandor. I doubt that you can even lift that arm above your head."

He averted his gaze, gritting his teeth, and she grinned in satisfaction.

"I'll have to cut the shirt off your back." Sansa said pointedly.

Catching the hint, he handed her the same belt knife that he had held her with, the same knife that she had cut greens with that rainy day that seemed so long ago.

She inserted the knife at a side seam and sawed gently. The dirty fabric fell into her hands as she worked, revealing his skin in the firelight.

He was a fine figure of a man, she had always known. She had felt the strength in his arms as he held her, seen the power of his sword cutting through his target. It was hard to imagine Gregor Clegane being larger than his brother; if Sansa had not seen Ser Gregor joust; she would not have believed it possible.

When she bared his shoulder, Sansa nearly lost her courage. The flesh and muscle puckered around the protruding shaft. A deep purple bruise flowered from the spot where the arrow had pierced him.

Unfortunately, the arrow had not gone all the way through his shoulder, which would have made it easier to remove. Instead, she would have to pull it out the way that it had come.

Imagining the pain, Sansa gulped.

"Little bird," Sandor rasped. "You don't have to. We'll find a healing-woman at the next inn."

Sansa couldn't believe that. With her luck, the wound would become infected and rot, killing him.

"No," she insisted. "I'll take care of it now."

He chuckled, and she felt it more than heard it.

"As you wish, little bird."

Sansa gritted her teeth and placed one hand around the shaft, touching his shoulder as light as she could.

Her first tug was as disappointing as it was painful. The arrow moved not an inch, and Sandor grunted painfully.

"I think it's embedded in your bone," Sansa told him sadly.

"Just do it." He rasped at her, trying to control his voice.

Sansa tugged again, harder this time, and felt the tip of the arrowhead scrape free of his bone.

"Stranger save me," Sandor Clegane groaned.

Sansa paused, curious. "You keep faith with the seven?"

He gave one laugh, weakly. "Is this the time for that?" he asked her.

Sansa shrugged. "I heard you cry to the Stranger when you killed the fourth man." She replied, tugging.

The arrowhead budged another few centimeters, getting stuck on the swollen flesh that surrounded it.

When he had regained his breath, Sandor replied. "I keep with one of the Seven."

"Interesting," Sansa said, and pulled one last time, yanking as hard as she could. The arrow sprang free in her hands, and she had to stop herself from tumbling into the fire.

Sandor Clegane groaned once more then wriggled his shoulder around.

"Not so interesting, really." He said after, as Sansa rummaged through their packs for the wine she knew he had.

"A faceless figure, ignored by most, feared by all. His specialty lies in killing and trafficking the dead, which he is quite good at. He's hardly spoken of, but everyone knows he's there." Sandor grinned. "I'm sure you can see why he appeals to me, really."

Sansa had found the wine. "That's quite sad."

"It's the truth."

He flinched as she applied the wine to his injury, and watched her as she cut strips of semi-clean fabric from the inner layer of her dress.

She began to bandage his shoulder, mind working curiously. She learned more about this man that had stolen her from King's Landing everyday.

And as they lay down in their bedrolls, Sandor's warmth at her back, Sansa realized that he had stolen her heart as well.

**A/N I apologize for how long it took me to update! Truly, it was getting ridiculous. I hope to be steadier in the future, but with volleyball and school starting up, I'm not as hopeful. :/ Thank you for reading! **


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer. Guess who owns all the components of A Song of Ice and Fire? That's right. Not me. **

**Sandor**

His damned sword would not clean. And as little as Sandor was opposed to dried chunks of flesh and bloodstains, he thought that his little bird might take offense.

So he had kept scrubbing it persistently, hoping that perhaps this time was the time when the blood would fall away in flakes into their fire. Hoping that the occasional stringy vein would break off and reveal gleaming steel underneath.

After two days of attempts, Sandor had bared half of his sword, and managed to clean the howling dog's head on the hilt.

Sansa watched him struggle with the blade, and she had even offered her assistance once, when he could hardly move his arm: the wound in his shoulder made his movements stiff when he got cold.

Three days after the initial attack that had gained them their freedom, Sansa and Sandor found themselves in hill country. Some of the rolling mounds rose high enough that Sandor could see for miles if he stood atop one. Contrarily, the trenches in between the hills were deep enough in places that one could see nothing but the sky when they looked around.

It was the perfect place to go if one never wished to be found, Sandor thought.

For the horses, it was hell. The going was slow and tedious. Finding a hill that was low enough for Stranger and the King's Landing mare to climb sometimes took hours of wandering around in the trenches.

They were going steadily in an easterly direction though. Most nights, the sun set at their asses and rose in the morning full in their faces.

"I haven't traveled this far since I came to King's Landing from Winterfell." Sansa mused one morning.

"I wish I could say the same." Sandor said darkly.

Sansa was looking at him, he could tell, with those deep blue eyes of hers that made him stir when he looked at them.

"What do you mean?"

He grunted. His little bird curiosity was annoying at times. Why couldn't she simply shut up and look tempting?

"Having one's fucking insane, heart-and-soulless, bloodthirsty brother hunt you down the Goldroad does not make for a pleasant tale, little bird."

Sansa's mouth fell into the perfect 'O' of surprise, and Sandor restrained himself from imagining which part of his anatomy would fit there nicely.

They rode on in silence for a few more moments, but noiselessness did not befit his little bird, who was always singing.

"I never knew. I am so sorry."

Sandor did not want her empathy. The part of him that wanted to shove her apology back at her violently conflicted with the part of him that wanted to take her in his arms and smother her in his lust.

Eventually, he replied. "It's not your fault that Gregor is the most vicious fuckhead that ever lived."

"Neither is it yours." Sansa replied simply, guiding her horse over to lay a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged her off, not wanting the physical contact anymore as he reminisced on some of his most horrible memories.

For in Sandor's mind, only those memories held their own against his memories of the burning.

The sight of his mother, driven insane by a glimpse of his face, running screaming out of the door of his room and onto the blade of her own dagger. That memory was a small pain in his side.

His father's beaten, purple and black body, swollen skin barely holding in the flesh and bone that had formerly made up the man Sandor called father. That one was a searing ache, like that left over from a sword injury, the kind that continually seeped blood and refused to heal.

His sister's corpse, still and pale on her funeral pyre save for the black marks of hands that encircled her neck. Young Sandor had discovered them when he went to place her favorite necklace around her throat to burn with her form. All that had covered them was the cotton collar on a white dress. White that symbolized innocence, purity. That memory was a devastating blow to his chest, like Robert's war hammer must have rendered in its prime. Sandor could nearly feel his sternum shattering; he could feel the pieces of his own bones pierce his vital organs.

The memory of similar bruises on his little bird's throat, arms, and face. The anger that Sandor had experienced when he saw what Ser Boros and Ser Maryn had done to her at Joffreys' command. Though not fatal in Sansa's case, it was like reliving his sister's murder, and he felt the same pain then.

But the most terrifying memory that Sandor Clegane stored in his personal cache of hell was one of himself.

An eight year old boy, traveling alone with nothing to keep him company save the coins in his pocket and sword strapped to his back. He remembered how the cold had bitten at him, how in had penetrated his very bones.

Sandor remembered that even that had been preferable to fire.

He recalled the fear. A mind numbing fear that had him violently shaking as he sprinted parallel to the Goldroad. He heard in his head the twang of arrows that left their bows, flying over his head in the utter, skin needling darkness.

The sound of horses in pursuit through the night, the taste of his own sweat in his mouth where it had ran down his face; these things reminded Sandor of his worst memories.

The electrifying, heart-stopping fear that made his limbs want to freeze up, made his brain want to shut down.

Twenty years later, and Sandor Clegane could still feel the unbearably painful breaths that tore through his smoke-ruined throat as he sprinted for his life, desperately running from the fire of Gregor's pursuing torches.

Twenty years later, and Sandor Clegane could remember the feeling of being hunted like the dog he was.

"Sandor!"

Sansa's voice cut through his thoughts of horror, shattering them.

"Sandor! What's wrong!"

When he replied, his voice was in a rasp.

"Some things it's best you don't know, little bird."

**A/N- So this was a short, not nearly as satisfying chapter of mostly filler. I wrote it mostly for myself as well as you: I think I needed to get into the Hound's head a bit. **

**I have one major plot development twist planned as of now; I think I'm hitting kind of a dry spot. **

**So PLEASE, review with suggestions as to themes you want to see arise. Death? Sex? Meeting an old friend? Money troubles? Let me know. I'd greatly appreciate it. **

**A FINAL THANKYOU to the Rock Gods of Aerosmith. Because without those guys, I wouldn't be able to get my creative juices flowing. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: You all know the drill. **

Sansa

A new day dawned and Sansa Stark rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Of late, the air had become crisper while they traveled a sure sign that priests and Starks were right; winter was indeed coming.

By mid-afternoon, Sansa's dreary brood mare that she had taken from King's Landing collapsed. Sansa went down with her horse as it stumbled into a hole, its leg snapping near in two as her rider toppled to the ground.

Sandor Clegane had bolted off of Stranger and checked her for bumps and bruises even as he ignored her screaming horse on the ground. When he found that the worst thing that had happened was that her neck wound had reopened, Sansa begged him to kill her horse. The poor creature deserved the gift of mercy after all that it had been through.

At the moment, they rode double on Stranger's back. Sansa relaxed as much as she could into the man's front, feeling his arms settle around her waist comfortably. She tried not to picture his arms wielding the sword that had killed so many, most recently her mare.

As the sun went down in the west, Sansa and Sandor crested a ridge to view a sight that made Sansa weep with joy.

"Sansa?" A rough voice inquired behind her. "Little bird?"

She wiped away her tears hurriedly, for she had been crying too often for comfort recently.

"It's Maidenpool," Sansa said wondrously. "Can't you see the castle? The banners?"

Sandor Clegane grunted in acknowledgement into her hair. "Aye, it is. What does in the Hells does this place mean to you?"

Sansa whirled in the saddle, awkwardly trying to face him.

"Maidenpool? It is where Florian the Fool is said to have first glimpsed Jonquil bathing with all of her sisters. It is a magical place for love and loss." Sansa said, starry eyed.

"Save us all," Sandor groaned. "Not that again. Little bird, haven't you seen how true knights are false ones, and how chivalry is a crock of shit?"

Sansa furrowed her brow, for in the last months, his statements had definitely proven true.

"Use the brain you store in that pretty skull of yours! Look beyond this magical horseshit and see real value." He grabbed her head, not ungentle, and turned it in the direction of the castle again.

"What am I supposed to see?" she inquired.

Sandor Clegane sighed. "The Bay of Crabs, girl. The place I've been heading to since the weakest of Mummers saw us. Our key away from here."

Sansa felt her jaw drop in shock. She was stupid not to have seen the opportunity before. Possibilities opened up ahead of her very eyes. Sansa knew from her geography lessons that The Bay of Crabs thrust into Westeros for several miles, and was used for trade and war.

Sansa was certain it could handle a few travelers too.

Sansa had never been to the Free Cities, but she found herself excited to try. She had heard extravagant tales of the cities. She wanted to gaze upon the flamboyantly dyed hair of Pentoshi men, to visit the steel forges of Qohor, and decide if the Faceless Men of Bravos were myth.

"How will we sail?" Sansa asked.

Sandor had been moving Stranger slowly down towards Maidenpool and the Bay as Sansa thought.

Behind her, Sandor's arms tightened, and she subconsciously sank deeper into them.

"I have means that would make any gold-wanting man fret to turn us away, little bird."

"Yes," Sansa replied, "But I am a fugitive of the crown. I was Joffrey's betrothed!" Sansa shook her head with worry.

She whirled around to face him, poking him in the chest.

"And you!" she went on. "You're a deserter of the King's Army! No man in Westeros that holds with Joffrey will let us have passage. And I'm sure that anyone that still holds with Stannis or dead Renly will want the Hound and a Stark at their-"

Sandor cut off her stream of inquisitions with a kiss, pressing his lips against hers suddenly. It was the first time in days that they had touched, and Sansa's head soon went foggy and subdued from the feeling.

It wasn't long before his arms clutched her back and Sansa twined toward him like a vine. She could feel the hot clouds of their breath rising around in the crisp air as their lips grasped each other.

But too soon it was over, and they broke apart.

Cold air rushed to fill the gap between them that had just been filled with warmth.

"You worry too much, little bird." Sandor's voice was rough and thick.

Sansa smiled, turning back around in Stranger's saddle.

"I thought that all of my concerns were extremely valid, my lord." Sansa cheeked.

She felt his lips press against the top of her hair briefly, and she reached up to place her hand over his on Strangers' reins as they continued towards the water.

Sansa and Sandor perused the docks for a likely looking ship to carry them away from Westeros for a solid hour before they found one.

A massive purple ship dominated the far end of the Maidenpool's harbor on the Bay. From the idle gossip that Sandor had collected in a few taverns, her business was not strictly honorable.

When the traveler's approached, Sandor leading his large black stallion and Sansa walking behind, the people on the docks gave them a wide berth. They had pulled their hoods over their faces, and did not plan to remove them.

Sandor had wrapped the crest of House Clegane in black fabric as to avoid questions on the dock.

They approached the port side of the merchant ship, and were intercepted by a deckhand that leered at them from above.

"What is it that you want with the _Titan's Daughter_ and her crew?" he asked over the din of the dock.

"Safe passage and no more, good man." Sansa replied clearly. "We wish to head to Braavos on your fine ship."

They had decided on Braavos as their destination. The city was located as far from King's Landing as was possible, being on the tip of the Eastern continent. Sansa and Sandor felt that Pentos, though perhaps easier to get to, was to close for comfort to Westeros's lions.

The deckhand took them in, measuring their worth. "There will be gold in that passage, lady." His voice was heavily accented Common. Sansa thought that his accent was Valyrian, but she could not be sure.

Sandor chose his time to speak. "Gold I have, sailor. Who captains your ship, and where is she headed?"

The sailor above hesitated, seeming to consider his words carefully. "Our captain is a good man, though he is battle-worn. He seldom travels above-decks. In his stead, our first mate is Farios Myrel, a native Braavosi himself."

"A captain that is a recluse, and Braavosi command? It sounds as if this is the ship for us, Sandor." Sansa said aside to her Hound.

He nodded in agreement, though she could see his uneasiness about not knowing more.

"Name your price, sailor," he demanded. "I will see if it is worth our gold." 

Apparently the man above liked talking of money, for he responded quickly this time. "A dragon apiece for the two of you, and another for the horse. The captain won't be wanting food to go to your mouths for free, so that's one dragon more. Another for our guarantee of safe passage."

Sandor Clegane growled as the sailor spoke, but reached for his belt purse. As he reached inside, Sansa saw the gleam of gold peppered with coins of silver. Startled, she knew that he could have afforded thrice the price easily.

However, the five golden dragons were enough to board them onto the _Titan's Daughter_ on their way to Braavos and, she hoped, freedom.

**I really hope I didn't lose anyone in the wait. This chapter is for all of you procrastinating around your Sunday night homework cramming. **


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